Royal Infirmary, smell ae bleach an’ despair, folk coughin like they’re in some consumptive choir. Ye fire up the bus, sweat oan yer neck, mind racin. Strap in: the 21’s a marathon ae schemies, seagulls, prams an’ patter.
This yin’s a journey through aw the layers ae Edinburgh, frae sterile hospital corridors tae Niddrie chaos tae Porty chips tae Leith pish alleys tae Clermiston hills tae Clovenstone carnage. Nae guidebook glamour, just the city showin ye its erse. Stops melt intae each other, roads twist an’ bite, but ye learn the rhythm. It’s survival wi’ humour, misery wi’ banter. The streets keep ye honest, or just broken.
Little France tae Greendykes
Ye start at Little France Crescent, place buzzin like a kicked wasps’ nest. Folk leggin it tae shifts, taxis blockin ye, some aul’ yin wae a zimmer shoutin at the wind. Ye crawl roon Little France Drive, slip intae Pringle, then back tae Little France Drive again, wonderin if the road designer wis oan mushrooms. Sandilands Close, Greendykes Terrace, yer first punters, auld dears wae carrier bags, laddies wi’ hoods up. Niddrie House Avenue, Marischal Drive, the young team wheelin bikes in front o’ ye like circus acts, showin aff, laughin at yer face steamin up. Aw the while ye’re mutterin “aye, clever wee c***s” but secretly hopin they dinnae get themselves flattened by life too soon.
Niddrie tae Portobello
This bit’s like drivin through a soap opera wi’ nae script. Wauchope Road, Hay Avenue, Hay Drive, folk spillin oot ae stairwells, screamin aboot who owes who a tenner, dugs barkin like alarms. Jack Kane Centre, Niddrie Mill Avenue, the crowd changes every minute. Mums wi’ double buggies treatin yer bus like a removals van, jakeys askin if ye take fags as currency. The Jewel’s just endless traffic, shops blarin, folk fightin tae squeeze their lives intae Lidl bags. By the time ye crawl tae Brighton Place, Portobello high street, the smell o’ salt and vinegar saves ye. Tourists tryin tae board wi’ fifty-quid notes, folk shoutin “this no gaun tae Musselburgh?” Naw hen, it’s gaun tae the end ae civilisation, climb oan an’ find oot.
Craigentinny Chaos
Craigentinny Avenue feels like a tunnel, aw grey walls an’ wheelie bins toppled ower, bus squeezin through like a fat lad in a skinny doorway. At the Crossroads ye get folk crossin when it’s red, waggin their fingers like ye should apologise. Loganlea Road, Loaning Road, Restalrig Drive, aw schemes, aw stories. A laddie wi’ a speaker blarin drill tunes, an aul’ wifie askin ye tae “turn that muck doon” like ye’re his maw. Sleigh Drive’s tight as f***, mirrors skimming past lampposts, passengers suckin their teeth, but ye’ve got it sussed. Piershill Cemetery lurks tae yer left, pure calm, pure eerie, then boom, six bairns burst oot the corner shop lobbing cans ae juice at each other. Contrast o’ life an’ death, Edinburgh style.
Lochend tae Duke Street
Lochend Avenue, hawks an’ gulls scrap ower Greggs bags, the park folk sprawled like they’re oan holiday in Ibiza. Hermitage Grove, Woodville Terrace, stairheid philosophers shoutin debates ye dinnae want tae ken the subject of. Burns Street tae Duke Street, everything bottlenecks, cars sittin up yer erse, cyclists flyin past like their time’s mair important than oxygen. Ye crawl past Academy Street, Kirkgate Centre, punters climbin oan loaded wae bags ae tatties, demandin ye wait while they count oot coppers. Junction Place, Cables Wynd, smells hit ye: fried chicken, piss, damp, weed. Mill Lane, Leith Theatre, South Fort Street, pure carnival ae tourists an’ locals starin each other doon. Half wantin a fight, half wantin a selfie.
Leith tae Crewe Toll
Newhaven Road’s a stretch where ye actually breathe, till Craighall Road throws ye back intae chaos. Warriston Crematorium on yer left, the air eerie, but no’ enough tae quiet the bawbags roarin on their phones. Bangholm Place, Goldenacre, Wardie Road, here ye get the dog-walkin classes, folk wae fancy jackets an’ names like Tarquin shoutin at Labradoodles. Arboretum Road, Boswall Drive, students haulin guitars, joggers poundin pavements like it’ll fix their souls. Crewe Toll roundabout’s like Dante’s f***in Inferno, motors dartin, buses jockeyin, punters swearin ye’re late even though traffic’s eatin ye alive. Ferry Road Drive tae Drylaw, polis station sittin smug, but aw the madness still spills oot, like they dinnae bother.
Drum Brae tae Clovenstone
Queensferry Road, folk waitin at Quality Street stop like it’s f***in Charlie an’ the Chocolate Factory, hunners ae them, aw demandin space at once. Clermiston Road North climbs, bus gruntin, yer patience thinnin. Drum Brae Hub, Drum Brae Drive, Meadowplace Road, roofs an’ gardens, kids bootin fitba’s intae the street, some aul yin wae a paper shoutin “how late are ye this time?” though ye’re bang on. Broomhouse tae Sighthill’s pure wall-to-wall life: Napier students oan the lash, wee radges tryin tae sneak oan wae a quid short. Calder Road, Wester Hailes Road, schemes stretch wide, ye ken half the folk oan the pavement by face if no name. Murrayburn, Hailesland, Clovenstone, the finale, bodies tumblin aff wae shopping trolleys, bairns scramblin, somebody shoutin “driver ye’re a legend” while another mutters “bawbag”. Doors hiss shut. Silence, just yer heid buzzin. Job done. Till ye dae it again.
That’s the 21. A full circuit ae the city’s madness, from hospital wards tae schemes tae seaside tae posh tae schemes again. Ye dinnae just drive it, ye absorb it, wear it, breathe it. It’s like watchin a full box set ae Edinburgh life in one shift. Nae tidy edges, nae tourist gloss, just folk bein folk. Learn the route, learn the patter, hold yer nerve. And if ye can laugh at it? Ye’ve cracked it.
_
Meta description: A sweary, raw Edinburgh bus 21 route guide frae Little France tae Clovenstone. Chaos, patter, nae gloss, pure city life.
Keywords: edinburgh buses, route 21, city bus guide, edinburgh commuting, bus stops, route learning, working-class humour, public transport, portobello, clovenstone, leith, niddrie, drum brae
Comments
Post a Comment